


Ascension

by etheratisha



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: All the origins live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avvar, Avvar Culture and Customs, Avvar lore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dalish Lore, Dragon Age Headcanons, Genderqueer Character, Half-Elves, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), altering of canon, graituitous interpretations of canon, kind of, mixed blood races show mixed traits, new lore, unique origin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26314561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etheratisha/pseuds/etheratisha
Summary: Regret curls in his stomach as he pants, out of breath and bloody. Blood slips down his face in a twisted caress. His hands are clenched so tightly around his sword that he is sure his knuckles would ache if not for the bloodlust and battle joy raging inside him. If there is anything he has learned in this past year of his life it is that he no longer fears death only regret. His life flashes through his eyes as a list of mistakes and choices he wishes he had never made, or choices he desperately wishes he had. It has never been as strong a feeling as it is here and now, facing down the archdemon on the top of Fort Drakon. He has but a moment, but it feels like an eternity, as he rushes forward, sliding beneath the monstrous dragon’s neck, blood pouring down on him as the dragon rears its head in a roar before collapsing. His sword falls to end the archdemon’s life and as the light envelops him, he lets go of his regrets.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Original Character(s), Cullen Rutherford/Surana
Kudos: 1





	Ascension

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a long long time coming. I cannot count the number of times I have tried to write it and failed. I do not even know if this will be the time I succeed or yet another failure to add to the list. This story is quite literally years in the making. I have spent years revising and planning and plotting this story out in my head. The main characters himself went through at least four major backstory changes and even a few gender changes before settling on this current version.  
> Ultimately the story I have been trying so hard to write is one that is so deeply a part of me now that I cannot imagine that I will ever forget it, ever leave it behind, but I need to try and bring it to life. I owe it to myself to bring it to life. So here I am, trying to create the story I need to hear.  
> Be gentle with me please, be patient, and if you could please encourage me now and then, it helps.  
> Now before you begin, please note that I will leave chapter-specific warnings in the notes every chapter I feel it necessary. 
> 
> **WARNING**  
>  animal death  
> child death

The mud on his skin is warm but it cools and cracks as it dries. He applies it generously in coats to cover his chest and arms. He shivers as he smears it in patterns across his stomach. The soft light of the morning filters in through the window of his wooden hut. He stands and pulls his leather pauldrons over his mud painted shoulders, slings his bow across his back, hooks its quiver to his hip, and grabs his staff from where it leans near the door. The sun has fully risen over the horizon when he emerges into the cool morning air. Most of the hold is already awake, bustling about in preparation for the day ahead. The morning sun warms him as he takes a moment to look out over the hold. Wooden huts and the natural caves of the mountainside make up his people’s homes. Ladders are scattered about, connecting some homes to levels. There are paths, some natural and some painstakingly carved out to connect others.

He descends the sloping path from his hut, nestled on a natural mountain ledge towards the main part of the hold, a small valley created where two mountains press against each other and form a cradle. A group of children runs past him, ears varying levels of pointed and round; elvhen and human blood mixed generously among them. He laughs as one more visibly elf-blooded child nearly trips him in their haste to keep up with their friends. The entire hold is bursting with energy. Today is the day that half of the clan returns from their travels. Today the Keeper returns to bring news and goods gained through trade with other Dalish clans, other Avvar holds, Lowlanders, Dwarves, and their Chasind cousins in the Wilds. A grand feast is being prepared for the caravan’s return. They have been gone nearly half a year now and the entire hold is eager to welcome them home. He himself took the long journey last night down the mountain to the river marsh to help his clansmen haul back fresh fish, using his magic to keep it cool and fresh so that it could be cooked tonight, and earning in return the chance to sleep past dawn rather than rise before it. The Master of the Hunt, Imerick, took the hunters out with him before dawn to hunt for game as well. 

There is much for him still to do before the caravan arrives, first among them to ensure his magic over the fish has held. He enters the butcher’s hut carefully, fingers trailing over the various runes carved into the wood, checking the strength of the magic in them and those carved into the crates and barrels that hold the fish as well as other meats, some of which are for the feast tonight and others which will be preserved for later. He can tell that Ivar has renewed the runes already this morning before he woke and their strength will last a while yet. The butcher himself, Amwen, a slender elf-blooded man with fair hair and wearing thick leathers to combat the hut’s magic-produced chill, is cutting slabs of meat for the feast tonight. One of their small herd of druffalo carefully shepherded in among an equally small herd of goats on the slopes and valleys of their sister mountains, slaughtered for the feast.

“Come to check the runes, Cam?” he says as he slices druffalo meat into steaks.

“Yes, though it seems Ivar has already beaten me to it,” he replies with one last brush against the runes.

“Aye, he was already here when I rose. Good boy, Ivar. He’ll make a fine Augur one day,” Amwen smiles as he stacks the steaks with thin sheets of reed layered between them. 

“He will, but I think it’ll be a long time before Havar is ready to pass on the title,” Cam smiles, “In any case, I’ve preparations of my own to attend to. Shall I send Illyana in to help?”

“Leave her be, she’ll be fighting in the ring today and she’s taking the time to prepare.”

“Then I shall see her in the ring myself today.” Cam laughs as he leaves. The Augur’s hut is on the other side of the hold from the butcher’s hut and Cam begins his walk there without hurry. There is time yet, the caravan should not arrive until later in the day. 

Havar’s dwelling is different than most within the hold. Paintings and runes cover the walls, bundles of herbs hang from the ceiling, and the firepit in the center is built from stone. Havar stands at a long table in the back, carefully grinding herbs with a pestle and mortar. 

“Where is Ivar?” Cam asks as he comes to stand beside the Augur, eyes cataloging the potions and poultices lined out on the table.

“He’s gone to fetch more herbs, elfroot mainly, you know we only keep so much of it on hand; it grows so prevalently,” Havar makes a motion towards one of the bundles hanging from the ceiling. “Hand me some spindle weed.”

Cam reaches up and plucks some from the bundle, handing it Havar, before reaching for some of the remaining elfroot and another pestle and mortar. Havar is hardly a conversationalist unless it’s necessary and what he lacks in manners he makes up for in knowledge and wisdom. So they work together in relative silence, carefully crafting healing potions and poultices for the arena matches and tests of strength and skill to come. 

“Augur!” Ivar cries excitedly as he steps into the hut, a satchel full of herbs in his hands. He is a boy still, thirteen, and full of energy only barely tempered by the spirit of Valor that guides him. “I’ve got the herbs you wanted, Augur, embrium, spindle weed, and lots of elfroot. I even found a patch of royal elfroot!”

Havar glances at his energetic apprentice. “Good, put them on the table over there, and start tying them up to hang. Not the royal elfroot, leave that out for me.”

Havar then turns to Cam. “Take these over to the gamemaster. You’ve done your part here for the day, go and ready yourself for the arena, the Keeper ought to be eager to see you test your might when she returns.”

Cam nods as he leaves, smiling at Ivar when the boy wishes him well with a smile and a wave. The arena is not far from the Augur’s hut and Cam can see the gamemaster, Tamra, waiting for him. Tamra is the one who trained him and many others in the hold to fight, though she taught Cam much less than most. Tamra teaches how to fight hand-to-hand, how to grapple, how to wield blade and bow, and other weapons; and while Cam spent enough time with her to learn the basics, enough to survive in a fight, he spent most of his time learning magic; how to bend the energy of the Fade to his will to cast spells, to heal or hurt or trap. 

“Good to see you, Cam,” Tamra greets him. “You’ll be joining in on the tests of skill today, right? The archery targets are set for practice and the arena is open for sparring, though I’d be cautious, the arena is crowded, lots of people wanting to show off today.”

Cam laughs as he hands Tamra the supplies from Havar. “I don’t doubt it. I know I’m not the only one to have a loved one returning with the caravan and I’m sure we’re all eager to show off for them.”

“True enough,” Tamra chuckles, “Now move along boy, you’ve got to be ready to fight, the Keeper will want to see if you’ve improved your form any since she’s been gone.”

Cam smiles, “I’m sure I have one or two new tricks for her.”

“That’s the spirit!” Tamra smiles and claps him on the shoulder as he turns towards the archery section of the arena.

He slips his bow off his back and draws an arrow from his quiver. The targets are sacks of grass sewn in the shape of men and painted with red circles. He breathes in deep, draws back the string, takes aim, and lets go. 

Drums pound as he swings his staff up to catch the blade swinging down towards his face. He pulls back to swing the bladed end of his staff towards Illyana, but she brings her dagger up to block and he’s forced to pull back as she brings her blade around in another attempted slash. He swings the bladed end towards her again, this time in a feint, shifting at the last moment to crash the heavy rounded stone on the other end of the staff into her side. She grunts and stumbles back and he quickly swings the bladed end forward again, but she recovers quickly and twists out of the way. He brings his staff up again to block a swipe from her dagger but missteps when she swings her sword towards his legs. He falls backward with a yelp and quick as a flash she points her blade at his throat.

“Yield,” he sighs and she sheathes her blades, reaching down a hand to help him up. The crowd watching cheers. 

“It was a good fight, Cam, and you’d have beaten me in moments if you’d been casting, but this win belongs to me.” Illyana smiles.

Cam smiles back and laughs, “My non-magic combat skills still have a ways to go, I know, but I’m proud to have held so long against you. You’re a great warrior Illyana, Amwen should be proud.”

Illyana clasps him on the shoulder as they walk out of the arena. “My father is proud of my warrior spirit and I’m sure your mother is proud of your determination as well.”

“Well, I would hope so. I ought to go and find her. I haven’t seen her since she watched me face Siobhan in the archery competition earlier.” 

“Go hunt down your mother, Cam. I need to hunt down Imerick, he owes me a pelt.” Illyana strides off and Cam turns towards the Thane’s cave, where the Keeper and the Augur have been speaking together with Thane Sigmund. They are still engaged in conversation when he enters, Havar and Athari standing next to a weary-looking Sigmund. 

“Mother?” He calls out quietly and Athari turns to him.

“Cam!” She smiles. “I am sorry I missed your last match, there were matters I needed to discuss with Sigmund and Havar.” She leaves her place at the Augur and Thane’s sides to pull him into her arms.

“You’ve grown since I’ve seen you last,” she smiles as she brushes the loose strands of his raven black hair from his face where they’ve slipped out of his long braid. 

“You’ve not changed at all since I saw you,” Cam says. “How were your travels this year?”

“Well enough, but we’ve time to talk about them later,” she frowns, “For now I have to finish my conversation with Havar and Sigmund. I will see you later, vhenan.” She turns back to Augur and Thane.

“Of course, mamae,” Cam turns to leave.

“Wait!” Havar calls and Cam turns back. “Just a moment, I have a task for you.” Athari returns to Sigmund’s side as Havar takes her place to pull Cam aside.

“I need you to find Sieglinde. The gods are restless and she has yet to return from her hunt. You know her best of us all, bring her back to the hold.”

Cam nods, “I’ll find her.”

“Thank you.” Havar returns to Sigmund and Athari. Cam spares them one last glance before he leaves, a strange sense of unease filling him. Sieglinde has spent days gone on her hunts before, but she’s nearly always present when the hold is reunited and rarely does the Augur, Keeper, and Thane spend so much time alone to talk. His unease doesn’t fade as he steps back out into the hold and turns towards his hut. Hopefully, Sieglinde isn’t far.

Cam slips out of the hold as the celebration continues. He makes his way down the mountain path to the forest beneath, magic swelling within him as he sheds his human form in favor of Sieglinde’s. Shapeshifting is an old art and a particularly challenging one at that. He has spent years studying Sieglinde to the point where he feels at times that he knows the mountain lion better than he knows himself. There are certainly times where her shape fits him better than his own. 

It’s easier to track Sieglinde like this than it would be for him to track her as a man; easier to follow in her footsteps when his paws match hers, easier to catch her scent when his senses are the keen senses of a cat rather than the duller senses of an elf. He weaves through the forest and past the fields down to the marsh as the moon rises to its zenith, bright and full above him as he follows Siegliende’s trail deeper into the marsh and closer to the border of the Korcari Wilds. 

Her trail becomes more and more difficult to follow as the scent of rot and death becomes stronger. His ears are pinned flat to his head, his tail twitching in unease. The swamps do not usually smell so heavily of death. His unease only grows as he takes in the land around him. Trees and plants withered, black, and rotting. There are blackened puddles of mud and more and more frequently does he see the rotting carcasses of various animals laid about. There is a silence hanging over the marsh, oppressive and heavy. 

The sounds of clanking armor and animalistic grunts drive him up into the branches of a decaying tree. He’s tense, claws sunk deep into the bark, stock-still. They come out from the brush without caution, noisy twisted things with green and grey rotted flesh, armor sunken into their bodies like shards of glass in a wound, jagged and bloody. Their eyes are bulbous, bloodshot things and the sounds they make send a shiver down his spine, twisted unholy laughter, and rasping gnarly snarls. They carry the scent of death and rot on them so thick that he feels like he might get sick, so strongly that he wishes to shed his feline skin just to dull his senses, but instead he holds himself still and waits. Trembling while they pass beneath him, clinging to the sickly branches of the tree and praying to all the gods he knows that it holds him strong and steady until they are gone. 

He creeps down the tree carefully, mindful of the scrape of his claws against the bark. Sieglinde’s scent is faint, nearly entirely obscured beneath the scent of decay and death, but there. He’s frightened and worried. Have these strange creatures kept her from returning to the hold? Have they killed her? He wants so badly to run down her scent, to sprint heedlessly towards the comfort of familiarity, but he forces himself to be slow and cautious as he tracks the scent, wary of any more of those horrid things lumbering about. 

He comes upon a grove, once beautiful but now rotten and desecrated. All the life within it blackened and dying. The bodies of some of those strange creatures lie scattered about, dead and leaking black blood from wounds given by teeth and claw. Laying in the center of it all is Sieglinde, bloodied and battered and still.

He sheds her form for his own and rushes to her side. Her breath is labored, her eyes closed, her wounds are severe but she stirs when he lays a gentle hand on her flank. Her amber eyes are filled with pain.

“Sieglinde…” he whispers, gathering magic in his hands. His skills as a healer are poor but his will is strong and he would give much to save her. 

Suddenly she lurches up, knocking him over, and lunges up to sink her teeth into the throat of the creature bearing down on them, even as it plunges its jagged blade into her chest. He had been too caught up in her to even notice that not all the monsters in the grove were dead. 

“Sieglinde!” he calls as cat and creature fall back to the ground. He pulls her body away from the twisted thing, sliding the sword out of her chest as he cradles her dying body in his arms. She looks up at him, a gurgling purr caught in her bloodsoaked chest.

_ Good cub… Strong, _ her voice is but a whisper in his mind,  _ All things end, it is the way. Sing my name in battle and fight well with my claws… _

The air shimmers around her form, a soft blue light suffuses her fur as the god that dwelled within her dies, and then she is gone. He shudders softly and tears fall down his face. 

“Sieglinde…” he whispers into her fur as he cradles her close, “Oh Sieglinde, may Falon’din guide you into the arms of the Lady of the Skies.”

It is the sounds of those monsters mixed with the sounds of battle that greet him as he nears the hold. It is nearly dawn and he is exhausted from hunting down Sieglinde and carrying her body back, but adrenaline surges through him at the thought of those creatures tangling blades with his clan. He lays Sieglinde’s body down; and Fade Steps up the rest of the path, world blurring and shimmering around him as he slips along the Veil up the mountain path. The world comes back into focus in chaos. Clansmen clashing blades with the creatures from the swamp; war cries and snarls rising like cacophony around him. He swings his staff off his back and spears the blade into the back of a monster as it grapples with Siobhan. The young hunter smiles at him in gratitude, face dripping blood from a gash across her cheek, before charging off after the next beast. 

Cam meets the next creature with a bolt of lightning to its already disfigured face and slices the throat of the next with a slash of his staff’s blade. One of the creatures, dwarf-sized, materializes out of the shadows behind him and drives its daggers into the flesh of his back. He cries out, swinging around with his staff to knock it away and lashing out with Mind Blast, to push them all back. They stumble from the telekinetic blast but lunge towards him again with snarls. Chain lightning takes out the majority of them, sparks jumping between their bodies in a chain of electric death. He finishes the last one facing him with a crack to the head from the gemstone on his staff and a swift slice of its blade. 

The fighting begins to blur after that; moments running together like the blood and sweat dripping down his face as he casts spell after spell and swings his staff until his arms burn and he feels sick. At times he fights beside one of his clansmen, at others he fights alone, desperate to eliminate the invaders in his home. It’s when he’s about to collapse that he finally stops to realize that the creatures are all dead; their bodies strewn about, their black blood splattered against the wood and stone. The bodies of his clansmen are among them, the living carefully coming through the mess for the dead and the injured. 

He stumbles forward to help but falls to his knees. Beside him is the face of Ivar, eyes glassy and empty, dead. It is the last thing he sees before darkness takes him. 

He wakes to his mother’s worried face above him. “Mamae..?” he whispers as she cups his face in her hand.

“Cathemriel, ma vhenan,” she whispers back, “I am so glad you’re awake. How do you feel?”

He feels uneasy, nauseous, his whole body aches; and he can feel the wounds he sustained in the battle throb with pain. The ones on his back from the dwarven monster’s blades burn. He’s been treated, but he knows Havar’s mana would have been spent on the most important and life-threatening wounds first and all others treated by normal means while he regains his strength.

“Ill,” he says, throat dry, “Poison?” 

His mother frowns, “I wish, ma vhenan, but I am afraid it is much worse.” Her fingers trail through the long strands of his raven black hair.

“Those creatures that attacked us, they are called Darkspawn. Do you remember them from the Hahren and Skald’s tales?”

“The monsters of the Blight?” The feeling of unease worsens, dread twisting his stomach further. The Darkspawn are terrible creatures, but there has not been a Blight in over four centuries.

“Yes, the Darkspawn have returned. I was speaking about them with Havar and Sigmund. There are rumors that there is to be a Blight. Not many wanted to take the news seriously, there has not been a Blight in so long, but the Lowlander King and the Grey Wardens have begun to gather at the old fortress of Ostagar in preparation for battle,” his mother sighs, “I had hoped we would be safe here, but it seems I may have led them here.” her eyes well up with tears, “They followed our aravels back to the hold, I should have been more careful. Forgive me, vhenan.”

“Mother,” it hurts to sit up, but he manages it with a grunt, pulling his mother into his arms, “You were eager to return home, it is not your fault. How could you have known the Darkspawn would follow?”

His mother looks at him with eyes the same bright azure as his own but darkened with despair. “Ma vhenan, I am sorry. The Darkspawn bring with them the Taint, the dark sickness that kills man and land alike. There is no cure, but you have it within you.”

“Then I am dying then?” there is a numbness that seeps through him at her words, not a numbness of the body, he is still in too much pain for that, but of the mind, he can hardly comprehend the thought that his death looms on the horizon.

“Yes, but there is a chance,” her eyes burn now with a fierce determination, “It is said that the Grey Wardens are immune to the Taint and that if one joins them they can be saved if they are quick. There is a spell, I will teach it to you. It will keep the Taint from killing you and the others as you head to Ostagar. Havar and I have decided to give you one of the aravels so that you and the other Tainted clansmen may make haste to the Wardens and have a chance.”

“Others? Who else has been infected?”

“Siobhan, Illyana, and Erik have been Tainted as well.”

“How many have we lost?” Cam is not sure he wants to know the answer, but he must. Ivar’s face in death rises up in his mind to haunt him.

“We lost Amwen, Tamra, and Skald Yvolde. Four of the children were also slain, Ivar, Hagvir, Lillian, and Josephina. Imerick was gravely injured, but he will survive. Thane Sigmund passed from injuries just after dawn. Fifteen of our warriors have also fallen and seven of our hunters. We were lucky, our clan is large and strong, but we have many wounded to tend to.” his mother is solemn as she lists their losses, but steels herself when she is done and stands,

“Come now, let me help you to your feet. I should take you to Havar to check your wounds. There is much to be done before you leave.” she reaches out a hand to him and he lets her help him out of bed. He’s in the home they share. The furs on the floor feel familiar against his bare feet. He looks around at his hut as his mother leads him to the door. He leans there taking in as many details as he can as his mother helps him into his boots. He wonders whether this will ever be his home again and the pain of sadness clenches in his chest.


End file.
